The Alpha and Omega of My Mowing Career

Several people assured me that mowing is good for the soul with lots of meditative benefit. Well, the only meditative thoughts I had during the 70 minutes I spent pushing that thing were anything but soulful. First of all dad came over to help me start the stupid machine. I told him he was a witness to history in the making. Actually, he may have been witness to a once in a lifetime event.

Anyway, I did the front yard twice because I decided I liked the diagonal pattern better than the circle I made the first time round. Front yard, fine. East side yard, okay. Hill in back, boring, and I was getting sweaty. So far the only meditation going on was whether or not I was going to get blisters, and that next time I shouldn't wear a sweatshirt.

The hill behind our backyard fence wasn't too tough; I just think I was beginning to realize that doing this all summer, in 95 degree weather might be more than I'm interested in pursuing. I could have used a drink but I couldn't release the safety lever or the mower would quit and I was afraid I'd never get it started again. So I move on to the west bank.

Did one strip (It's quite a bank. We had part of it filled in with rock but there is still enough to be a pain.) I skipped over, actually mowed over, to the west side yard. I resumed the diagonal pattern and resolved myself to the distinct possibility I was going to have blisters on not only my hands but my feet as well. So far, 10 minutes of this was entertaining, the rest I can live without.

I looked at my watch, determined to finish before Kevin came home for lunch, although it is Friday and he usually goes to the bank instead, I just thought he may have read my post and it would get the best of him. I conquered the remainder of the west bank with thoughts I cannot share. I returned the mower to the garage and dragged my sorry butt into the kitchen. This is why I like the piano.

At 12:30 Kevin walks in yelling at me. (Like clockwork, this guy.) He hates the grass. Something about leaving clumps of grass everywhere and how I didn't round the trees properly. I told him it was my first try, that I could do better, that there was no good reason for him to work all week and have to come home and mow the grass, that it was the least I could do...but nothing would do him. The grass means everything in the world to him, it appears. And who am I to rob him of this simple pleasure. Thank you Jesus.

I confess to these nobler thoughts:

• I have taken for granted his willingness to commit to this chore.
• I will never tell him it's easier than laundry again.
• If he ever mentions getting another rider, it's a done deal.
• Hats off to all you merry mowers of the world.